


The faith that never fails

by psychomachia



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Forced to hurt someone in order to protect them from something worse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 09:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20739878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: Bell and Doyle investigate a murder. Someone else investigates their relationship.





	The faith that never fails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/gifts).

After it was all over and I stepped into the light, blinded but for a moment, I knew that things had irrevocably changed, My eyes had cleared in time to see the Doctor's limp figure, mercifully covered with a blanket, taken out on a stretcher.

That he was breathing was a gift beyond compare. Everything else... was not.

I was a coward enough to admit that I was grateful he was not awake. If he had been conscious and his gaze had fallen upon me, full of judgment and reproach, it would have been terrible.

Worse would have been what I suspected would actually be in his face. Forgiveness.

I could not have bore that. To have done what I did and still had his love, his friendship, it would have been too much.

So I fled instead. I suppose I was grateful that the police viewed me as a fellow victim. They had no one to contradict my garbled account, full of half-truths and in some cases, outright lies. I knew, in time, they would question the inconsistencies, investigate the scene, and though, the Doctor had his own opinion on their deductive capabilities, it would not take long before even the dullest of them would seize upon something.

And if Bell were to wake...

It would not matter. What I needed to do would need to be done quickly. He would not approve, but I could not fall any further in his estimation than I had in my own.

* * *

It had been a mistake from the beginning, and it had been both of ours.

We had affixed our attention on Sebastian St. James. It had seemed a logical deduction at the time. He had a contentious relationship with his family, a propensity for drinking and gambling, and a frightening willingness to resort to threats upon any questions related to his older brother's death.

And his death had been most gruesome. Robert St. James had been bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker; his remains had then been shoved into the fireplace where they had been found, charred and twisted. St. James had claimed to have been miles away, drinking at a tavern, but of course, his own father had been more than willing to offer that he had seen his son that very night, sneaking into the house to steal a set of silver candlesticks.

“A wretch and an ingrate,” Lord St. James snorted. “He's always been a disappointment.”

The lord did not seem terribly upset about the likelihood that one son was a murderer of the other, but Bell and I had long seen the darker side of human nature, so this came more as a sad confirmation than a shock.

Likewise, the discovery of Sebastian's body floating in the river with his brother's pocket watch found tucked into his breast pocket seemed all the confirmation the police needed to rule the case closed. A terrible family tragedy, but one that was easily explained.

And yet...

“There's something not quite right about this, Doyle,” the Doctor said. “It's too neat. One son kills the other for the inheritance and is promptly found out.”

“Not every murderer can be a master criminal,” I told him. “You've grown used to complicated plans.”

He smiled briefly and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you're right.”

But we were not and I wondered if that had been one of the moments our unseen watcher had witnessed. How much had he seen that built his twisted resentment?

For the Doctor was quite right. There was something deeply wrong about it all.

* * *

“Good, you're awake,” the voice said cheerfully, as I blinked, the room spinning a bit. It was dim, crates scattered about. I was seated on a hard chair, slumped over. I was not bound to it, which was good, but my limbs may has well have been, as weak as they felt.

There was a man standing in front of me, but my vision, still swimming, could not focus on his face.

“I wasn't positive about the dosage,” he went on to say. “I'm not a doctor like you, so I had to do a little bit of reading. But I think you should be mostly fine.”

He stepped forward then. The face was older than mine, a neatly-trimmed beard shot through with gray. His brown eyes were mild and calm, which chilled me, considering the situation he had put me in. He was familiar, and yet not--

“Oh, I don't think you know me,” he said. “I suspect, given time, you would have. You're both very clever men and I really admire that. Not at all like my father.”

“Your father,” I managed to croak out. “Who--”

“Lord St. James,” he said. “Though he'd never admit it. I'm a bastard, you see. Can't have one of those running around in respectable society.”

And yes, I could see it. The features were similar. Put the two of them next together and I suspected that the Lord would have a very difficult time denying his parentage.

“But it doesn't matter now,” the man laughed, and there was madness to it, a hysteria that caused it to get higher. “He doesn't have a son now and he has to accept me.”

I could not say anything to this, but it wouldn't have mattered as the man kept rambling.

“There's no one left and he'll forgive me for everything. Your father would, right?”

It took me a moment to realize that he was expecting a reponse from me. I did not know what I could say that wouldn't inflame his insanity. “Yes?” I said, and braced myself.

He nodded. “I thought that as well,” he said, quieting down to his more mild demeanor. His madness seemed to be quelled, for the moment, as he walked over to me, but I found myself growing tense at his presence.

He took my arm and with surprising strength, hauled me to my feet. I leaned against him, as he gripped my elbow, forcing me to stumble along.

There was a table in front of us that I could see now, a white sheet draped over it. A body lay clearly beneath it.

“I'm not certain, though,” he said quietly. “I think we need to do an experiment. Would your father really forgive you for anything?”

I don't know why I thought, at the time, if only for a brief second, that somehow, he had managed to spirit my father from his institution and drag him all the way down here. It was a foolish thought, and of course, as with everything from this case, completely wrong.

With his free hand, he took the sheet off.

Bell lay beneath it. His eyes, bleary and red-rimmed, flickered up at me in recognition. I could see that he was bound to the table, and the man had evidently gagged him as well.

“Doctor,” I said.

“I hope for both our sakes, that you're right.” I was braced against the table. Bell's eyes met mine and I forced myself not to look away for his sake.

I felt something cool and metal slip into my hand, and then my hand was held, hovering above the Doctor.

It was a scalpel.

“Don't worry,” the man breathed into my ear. “I don't want it to be fatal. But he has to be hurt, don't you see? You have to hurt him and then, if he forgives you...”

“No.” There was wetness on my face, a prickling at the corner of my eyes.

The man shook his head. “You have to.” I was still dizzy from the drugs, or I suppose I would have recognized sooner the revolver in his hand. He lifted it to Bell's head. “Otherwise, what purpose do I have for keeping him around?”

“You wouldn't--” But of course, he would.

“It's all right.” The man put his hand on my shoulder, a cool mockery of Bell's earlier warm touch. “You don't have anything to blame yourself for. Fathers have to love their children.”

“Please--”

Bell's eyes were gentle, but resigned. I wished he would close them, so I could not see the compassion in them.

The grip on my shoulder tightened.

I lifted the scalpel.

At least the cuts were clean and I knew where they would do the least damage.

It was the most I could do for him. 

* * *

I knew his name now.

Joseph Abernathy, son of a cook in Lord St. James' kitchen and an unknown father. Both cook and child had been sent away some years past, upon careful questioning in the local tavern, and had not been heard from since.

“He was a sweet boy,” Mrs. Harrison said. She used to work in the kitchens as well, before marrying the village butcher. “Always running around, trying to help us out. Would light up if you praised him for anything.”

I had not slept the night before I arrived, my eyes seeing the same nightmare played out before me every time I closed them. I had caught the first train I could, wearing the same clothes, now filthy and flecked with dark sports I hoped no one would look too closely at.

It had been perhaps two days since our rescue and I hoped I had been quick enough. Abernathy had not been able to finish what he started, interrupted by a constable alerted to strange happenings and unconscious men dragged into a landlady's basement.

Lord St. James had retreated to his townhouse, rumors said. The police would no doubt assume that Abernathy would go there to finish his father off and would therefore put extra details on it.

I knew better. He wouldn't go find his family.

He'd go home.

And I would catch him there.

Bell would have argued differently. “Let the police handle this,” he might have said. The mystery had been solved, the murderer revealed. Our work was done.

But the Doctor lay hurt in the hospital at my hands and I could not let that stand. I had procured my own revolver, an old thing that still functioned and had a few bullets.

I would not need more than one. Perhaps two if I could not bear it all at the end.

It was night when I finally arrived at the manor. I did not know if the local constabulary had been alerted to the goings-on of the St. James family, but I did not want to take any chances by showing up in broad daylight.

The windows were dark and around the back, over a gate and behind some hedges, there was a door, unlatched and open, leading inside.

I did not fool myself that Abernathy would not know I was coming. It was inevitable for both of us.

Quietly, I walked down the hallways, the gun in my hand. The house was acrid, musty, with a faint chemical scent to the air. There was no noise, no light, until I reached the end of a corridor. Underneath the frame, a faint orange glow could be seen.

I opened the door.

Abernathy sat on a chair, smiling at me. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace behind him, a lantern on the table. He had his revolver loosely held at his side, and he made no motion to raise it at my appearance.

“I wondered when you would get here,” he said. “I had a talk with my father already, and I think we were both wrong after all.” He waved his hand not holding the gun lazily in one direction.

The body on the floor lay in a pool of blood. Its head had been caved in, but it was not hard to tell that Lord St. James had been done in, the final victim of Abernathy's twisted scheme.

“He came here,” I said. “How did you convince him?”

“He's not a saint.” Abernathy shrugged. “There's a number of things he's done the Crown would find very interesting indeed and I elaborated upon a few of them in a letter I sent him. I knew he'd be arrogant enough to come here alone and try to bargain with me.” He smiled thinly. “Fathers may love their children, but children don't have to love their fathers, in the end.”

My hand shook. “And yet you had to drag the Doctor and me into this – for what? Your experiment failed.”

Abernathy laughed. “But it didn't fail,” he said. “I just set the parameters wrong. That man – he sired me, but he wasn't really my father. Yours, on the other hand...”

I raised my gun. In the light, it seemed a shadow emanating from me, as if I was stretching forth a hand of darkness. “He's not my--” My voice wavered.

“Don't lie to me,” Abernathy said. “I watched you two.” His voice turned wistful. “You don't even know how lucky you are. You've had two fathers and I never had one. It's not fair.”

My hand shook and I brought up my other hand to keep the grip steady. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course, I do.” And then he looked straight at me. “See, he even came for you.”

My heart sank, but I knew as soon as I turned what I would see.

The Doctor was behind me, a frail figure, leaning on a cane. His face was ghastly pale in the orange light, and I could see the faint white of bandages beneath his cuffs. But his voice and gait were both steady as he walked up to me and said, “Doyle, give me the gun.”

“Doctor,” I said. “I--”

He put his hand on my shoulder, reeling slightly, and I unconsciously took a step forward, to catch him if he should fall. “Doyle.” His voice was gentle, but firm.

I looked behind me. Abernathy was still grinning, watching us both, and I moved as if to go towards him. All that he had put Bell and me through-- all of it for some childish fantasy and to just let it go--

“No.”

I numbly let the Doctor's shaking hands take the revolver out of my hands, slide it into his own coat pocket and lower my own hand to my side.

“Mr. Abernathy,” Bell said. “I do pity you, for all that you've been through. But what you've done – yes, a father could forgive it, but a good father would tell you that you must face the consequences for it as well.”

We were both facing the man now, Bell at my back, a warm, breathing presence. I did not know what indomitable energy kept him standing, when by all rights, he should be resting in a hospital bed, recovering from his injuries. But I knew that were he not there, I would have fallen a long time ago.

“I see,” Abernathy nodded. “You're absolutely right.” He smiled, one last smile that bore none of the mania that had possessed him through this. It was a sweet smile, almost one of a boy. “Thank you.”

And he raised his revolver to his head.

* * *

The carriage ride back was bumpy and I feared for the Doctor's injuries, jostled around as he was.

“You should be in bed,” I told Bell. “For the next three weeks at least. You've just been through--” and I stopped, as a swell of nausea overcame me, remembering the cause of it all.

“Doyle.” His hand was gentle, taking my own into it. “Abernathy wasn't well and there was much he got wrong, but he was correct on one thing. I don't blame you for anything.”

I laughed, a harsh one that reminded me far too much of the dead man back in his father's house. “So you forgive me, then? I am prepared to face any consequence.”

“No,” he said. “You don't need my forgiveness. You need your own.”

I closed my eyes then, trying not to weep. His hand held mine and he put his head on my shoulder.

“And if I can never forgive myself?” I asked.

"You will." He smiled at me. "I have faith in you."

For the rest of the ride, his breathing was soft and slow against my neck, and I knew that however long I lived, I would never forget what I had done, even as his wounds healed into faint scars. I would never feel I deserved the trust he had in me. 

I did not deserve his love. 

But I would try.


End file.
